


Pretty Like You

by pangodillO, Wholly_owned_subsidiary



Series: Newton's Third [5]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Dysphoria, I will fight you for nonbinary Cecil, Makeup, Other, Pink - Freeform, Ribbon Bondage, all Carloses are trans Carloses, femme trans boy, gender is a social construct, nonsexual bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wholly_owned_subsidiary/pseuds/Wholly_owned_subsidiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos shakes his head; the concept is there, in his mind, but if he knows the words he can't find them right now.  "There's so many things I've been running from all my life just to prove that I'm a man, and you just—I—I don't have to run anymore, Cecil."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Like You

"A makeover?" Cecil echoes.

Carlos blushes. "You don't have to. I just thought—I'd like to look like you, a little."

"Like me?"

He dares a glance at their face; they don't look upset, just confused. "Pretty," he clarifies. "You're so pretty, Cecil."

They smile at the compliment, without looking any less confused. "You want to be pretty like me?"

"Yes?"

"Carlos—" They touch his cheek, stroking over the stubble there. "When I'm pretty, I'm femme. I don't know how to make pretty _masculine_."

"You don't need to," Carlos says. "I. I don't want you to."

Cecil takes a breath. "Okay, then. Tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night." Carlos leans up and kisses their cheek, smiling. "Thank you, Cecil."

* * *

He makes sure to be home before Cecil the next evening, freshly showered and wrapped in his softest bathrobe, the one that's Cecil's favorite. He's shaved his face smooth, but left the rest of his body hair alone; he has hair in places he can't see, and it seems absurd to him to shave his legs only to leave the hair on his ass, or his back. The hair on his head, he combs out and air dries.

Cecil brings home pizza, fresh-cut flowers, and a plastic bag of things they won't let Carlos see. They won't let him see the pizza, either—"it's a sleepover," they explain, herding him up the stairs, "pizza comes after the makeover."

"We both live here," Carlos points out, "how is this a sleepover?"

"I said so," Cecil says, and Carlos has found that few things require more explanation than "Cecil said so." He lets himself be herded into the bathroom, which has the best lighting in the house.

"You don't mind not being able to see till I'm done?" Cecil asks.

"That's what I expected." He thinks if he asked, Cecil would uncover a mirror for him, which is why he isn't going to ask.

"Any guiding thoughts?"

Carlos shrugs. "I'm not entirely certain what I'm asking for. I trust your judgement, though; you have full creative control."

"Hmm." Cecil tilts his chin up, examining his face. "Well, we can always wash it off if you don't like it. You used the aftershave I got you."

"Uh—" It takes Carlos a moment to catch up to the swerve in conversation. "Yes? I like the way it makes my skin feel."

Cecil leaned close and inhaled deeply. "Mm, and it smells nice on you, too. I thought it would." 

"You have good taste," Carlos says, and closes his eyes to let Cecil work.

He drifts in a state akin to subspace for a while, eyes closed, letting Cecil move him how they like, do with him as they like. It even comes with some of the same sensations: Cecil swiping things over his mouth, Cecil tugging at his hair, Cecil pressing his hands down and telling him, "Don't move these."

"All right," they say finally, "you have to stand up for this part. No, keep your eyes closed. Trust me? Good." They kiss the back of his hand, then lead him out into the bedroom.

They take one wrist in their hands, and tell him, "I didn't know if you wanted me to dress you, too, and if you did, what could I do without causing you dysphoria." They turn his hand, and something soft touches his wrist, begins to wrap around. "So I thought I'd just decorate you instead—something a little familiar, but a little new, too." Carlos' breath catches as Cecil buckles the cuff around his wrist. "Is this all right?"

"Yes," he breathes. "Green. Yes, Cecil."

"My lovely boy," Cecil murmurs, and kisses the back of his other hand before fastening a cuff there too. "I can't kneel today, come stand by the bed and put your feet in my lap," they tell him, and he follows their guidance and lifts his feet one at a time so that they can kiss his knee and fasten a cuff to his ankle.

The harness they tie him into is familiar, a non-restrictive pattern of diamonds, but the material is different, smooth and slippery against his skin. Ribbon, maybe? They fit it around his breasts matter-of-factly, and he wonders if it will leave any marks, and what they'll look like. 

"Almost done," Cecil murmurs, tying off the last knot at his hip. "Follow me. There, kneel. My handsome boy." They sigh, but he can hear that they're smiling. "I'm afraid you still look handsome, pet; I was trying not to make you look too flamboyant. I hope it's pretty enough."

"Can I look yet?"

"In a moment." Grunting, they settle on the floor behind him, pushing his feet apart; he shifts for them, lets them clip his ankle cuffs to the ends of the spreader bar. His wrists they fasten to the center of the same bar, forcing his back into a slightly uncomfortable arch. "All right?"

"For a little while," he agrees. He endures much worse pains for them on a regular basis; he can, and wants to, bear this for them, too, if this is how they want him to see himself.

They wrap their arms around him from their place behind him. He has no way of returning the embrace except by rolling his head back onto their shoulder, but they catch at his chin before he can complete the movement. "You'll muss your hair," they chide quietly, and oh so gently stroke his bared throat with their other hand. "One last thing..."

The last thing is a collar, one that jingles quietly as Cecil puts it on, buckling it at the back of Carlos' neck. Their hand smooths down the extra material, pressing over the back of his neck, and he arches up into the touch. He is theirs, surrounded by them, marked by them, possessed and gentled and completely taken care of.

"I love you," he says, because it's too much to hold inside him. "I love you so much, Cecil."

Cecil chuckles. "You haven't even seen it yet."

"I'm going to love it," Carlos says, "because you did it for me, because I asked you to—but even if I don't, even if I hate it, I'll still love you, I still love you, you're so good to me."

"I love you too." They press a kiss against his neck, just above the collar, then push off his shoulders to stand. He keeps his eyes obediently closed, tracking their movement by sound. The closet, and then in front of Carlos, just to his right—a sound of fabric swept aside—

"You can look now, love."

Carlos catches his breath at the sight of himself. Pink—everything is pink, the flowers in his hair, the polish on his nails, the cuffs, the ribbon, the collar. His lips are pink, his eyes bigger, his eyelids shaded with something gold and shimmery; three tiny pink rhinestones adorn his left cheekbone. The ribbon isn't just knotted at his hips, it's looped into two ornate bows, and in the center of each is a flower matching the ones from his hair.

"Are you all right, pet?" Cecil asks anxiously, standing on the other side of the mirror they're holding for him to look into.

Carlos nods, unable to speak. He's radiant, he's beautiful—he's pretty, just like he asked them for, and nothing about it makes him feel feminine. He has to blink hard to keep from crying.

"Carlos...?"

"I hated pink," he says, and his throat closes up and he has to breathe. He can't ruin this makeup they worked so hard on. "For so long," he continues, "and so many other things, too—lace, and ribbons, and anything that felt too girly, anything that—" He shakes his head; the concept is there, in his mind, but if he knows the words he can't find them right now. "There's so many things I've been running from all my life just to prove that I'm a man, and you just—I—I don't have to run anymore, Cecil."

Cecil folds the blanket back over the mirror, leans it against the wall, and falls to their knees to embrace him; he winces, knowing they'll pay for it in pain later, but he can't bring himself to deny the closeness, their hands cradling him, their clothes against his skin, their heart beating against his breast.

"My pretty boy," they murmur into his hair, "my beautiful handsome pretty boy, tell me—"

"I'm pretty," he says, and for once this order is easy to obey.

"My good boy, my good pretty prince, tell me—"

"I'm your good boy, I'm your pretty prince."

"Tell me—"

"I'm yours, Cecil."


End file.
